The Banished of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood, #1)(84)

Maia stared at her in shock. The woman had never, not once, shown her a kindness. She could hardly believe it.

“Thank you,” Maia said, a tremor in her voice.

Lady Shilton lifted the tray and then unfolded the bundle of fabric. It was a servant’s gown, one from Lady Shilton’s own household. It was what her ladies-in-waiting wore. Maia had fancied the roping on the sleeves and the back of the gown, which cinched the fabric tight. It had always looked elegant and simple. It was a servant’s garb, not a lady’s, but anything was better than the rags she had worn.

“I thought you might want to . . . borrow . . . a gown while the other one . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her lips pursed sourly, her cheek muscle twitching. “Just give me . . . yours.” She swallowed. “I will burn it.” She sniffed and waved her hand impatiently. “Come, child. Off with it. I will burn it.”

Maia was not sure she could trust her. She was afraid of trusting anyone. That she should find a little sympathy from this hard, stern woman—it truly surprised her. Besides, she dared not remove her gown and expose the kystrel or the shadowstain on her breast. “I would rather keep it, Lady Shilton,” Maia said demurely. “For washing days.”

“It is no matter to me what you do with it.” She sniffed again, handing over the bundle. “I called for my apothecary, Mikael Healer. He is a good man, trained in Billerbeck Abbey, and he will bring you some remedies.”

Again, Maia was astonished. “Thank you.”

Lady Shilton looked at her with something resembling sympathy, then fled the attic again without another word. Maia took hold of the crust and ate ravenously. It was Lady Shilton’s bread, not servant’s fare. There were little black seeds in the dough and Maia tasted a hint of lemon and spice. It was wonderful. She devoured it.

After washing herself with the rags and warm water, she held out the new gown and stared at it adoringly. She had always loved her wardrobe and could not believe how majestic the simple gown looked to her now. Being forced to watch Murer strut around in her royal gowns had made Maia sick with envy at first, but that feeling had faded since her imprisonment in Lady Shilton’s manor, replaced with desperation for something else to wear except for the one ragged dress.

Maia put on the gown and wished, for once, that her small room could spare a mirror. The sleeves were smooth and warm and the gown stretched all the way down and covered her frayed felt slippers. With a brush, she knew she could almost pass for a normal person and not the household drudge.

There was a little flush of warmth in her heart as she smoothed the gown over her body, feeling the cut of it, the shape of it. It felt . . . good.

More steps.

Having eaten every last crumb of bread, Maia quickly drank some water to parch her thirst. She heard voices in the stairwell, a man’s voice intertwined with Lady Shilton’s, and then the door opened.

“. . . come sooner, but some ruffian smashed into me on the street, knocking my cap off, and I dropped everything. The rudeness! I am grateful my leather bag is so sturdy, Lady Shilton. All the vials and stoppers are safe. If he had cracked my pestle, I would have asked the guard to hang the man!”

“It is well enough, Mikael. There she is. This is the king’s daughter, Lady Maia. This is Mikael, Healer from Billerbeck.”

He was a big-boned man in his early forties with a wide girth and balding reddish-brown hair. “Very well to meet you, Lady Maia,” he said, squinting down at her.

She bowed her head respectfully and curtsied, wondering if Lady Shilton had given her the dress so this man would not know how poorly she was treated. It was a cynical thought and she squashed it.

He set down the bag and rubbed his hands together. “Chilly being up so high. How do you stand it? Let me see, I can mix a tincture that always is useful in such occasions.”

He hummed to himself and fetched his leather bag. Maia sat on the edge of the bed and watched as he lifted out certain ingredients, squinted at some of them, then added them to the basin of his mortar, which he’d settled on the small table near her bed. Lady Shilton stood nearby, fidgeting.

“Some warm water, madame,” the apothecary said over his shoulder to Lady Shilton.

She nodded and descended back down the steps. The apothecary looked at a small vial and added a few drops to the mixture, still humming as he went. “Rude man, I tell you,” he started to murmur, though it was clear he expected no response. “Walking into him was like walking into a brick wall. I am no small cub myself and he knocked me on my arse. Had a vicious look in his eyes, but he did stop and help me up and make sure nothing was broken. Will have a bruise on my backside, I fear.” He rubbed himself gingerly.

Lady Shilton returned and the apothecary smiled and took the cup she offered him. He dumped the powder from his mortar bowl into the water, then mixed it with a cut of ginger root from his bag. “A little treacle is often a good additive,” he said with a grin. “But this will do in a trice. Drink it down, Lady Maia. It will help calm your innards.”

Maia took the tea and drank it. It was bitter and burned her throat a little, but she had expected the flavor to be revolting and it was not. She had drunk half the cup when another round of cramps started.

She hurriedly set the cup down, wincing.

“Feeling another pang?” the apothecary asked. “You just drank it. It takes some time for the fluid to run through your bowels. I will stay until it works.”